


Bad Things

by ToAStranger



Series: Control [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Belligerent Sexual Tension, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-10 20:50:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4407218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToAStranger/pseuds/ToAStranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles punched him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cywscross](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cywscross/gifts).



> No actual sexual content. Just... a lot of wanting it.

Rafael pinches the bridge of his nose. His jaw still aches from earlier and there is still far too much paperwork to fill out before he can go home. At the end of the desk Beacon Hills Police Department dusted off for him to use while he’s in town, Stiles snorts, leg bouncing and hands still cuffed behind him. Rafael bites down on his cheek in order to keep from giving the boy the dirty look he wants to, focusing back on the report he’s typing up.

“Bet whatever mundane desk job you’ve got waiting for you back at Quantico is looking real good right about now,” Stiles mutters.

Rafael’s jaw ticks tight, but he winces at the throb of pain that comes with it, shaking his head to play it off. “It might be in your best interest to stop talking.”

“It was probably in _your_ best interest not to get in my face,” Stiles replies, features shrugging when Rafael casts a dark glance his way. “But here we are.”

Rafael blinks, turning in his chair to face him properly as his brows pinch, expression going tight. “Stiles, you assaulted a federal agent. Do you have any idea how serious this is?”

There’s a smile—fleeting, sharp, dangerous—and then Stiles licks his lips and leans in, voice lowered. “You got my dad fired. Not suspended— _fired_. I should have done more than just punch you.”

Sighing, Rafael leans away, heavy in his chair. His lips thin as he regards Stiles, gaze slow and measured. He rubs a hand over his jaw, wonders if it will bruise, and wonders if Stiles’ hand hurts as bad as his face feels. Stiles tips his chin up a bit, like he’s won something, and Rafael thinks maybe he has.

There is no one else in the station except for the officer manning the front desk. Everyone else is out on patrol. BHPD has been on high alert for the same reason that he is still on the west coast.

Rafael smooths his hands down his thighs, easing out the wrinkles in his pant legs before pushing to his feet. He just wants to get back to his hotel and catch some sleep before the sun comes up. Stiles watches him, frowning when Rafael tugs him up and turns him about sharply.

“What are you--?”

The handcuffs come undone with a metallic click, one right after the other. Rafael tucks them into the leather holder on his belt as Stiles turns slowly to face him, rubbing his wrists. His brows are up, question hanging between them, unspoken and unnecessary. Rafael has always been good at understanding what Stiles means without needing him to say it.

“Go home,” he says.

Stiles’ face scrunches. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Rafael nods. “I’m not in the mood for this anymore than you are. Go home.”

Stiles falters, licks his lips, and then shuffles until he’s at full height—still a full head shorter than Rafael—and Rafael already knows he isn’t going to like whatever comes out of Stiles’ mouth. Then Stiles says “no.”

“No?” Rafael balks.

“No,” Stiles repeats with a sharp little nod, crossing his arms and leaning back against the edge of Rafael’s temporary desk. “Charge me. Write up your report. Put me in holding.”

“No,” Rafael says, firm, throat already feeling tight as annoyance stirs under his skin. “Go get your shit from the front desk and _go home_ , Stilinski.”

“And make this easier on you?” Stiles huffs. “Not likely.”

Heat crawls and twines up Rafael’s spine. It is a sensation he’s extremely familiar with these days, especially when handling this particular nuisance standing in front of him. Ever since rolling back into Beacon Hills, every time he deals with Stiles, he feels it—radiating, twisting, coiling inside of him. It is something he recognizes as anger, as irritation, and as a perverse desire to dominate.

Stiles has never been easy to handle. Even when he was younger, he was a calamity whenever he graced the McCall household with his presence. Upon coming home to find Stiles much older but not much changed, Rafael felt that familiar exasperation, but with the inappropriate addition of yearning constantly pulsing low in his belly. It certainly doesn’t help that anytime Stiles gets defiant, all Rafael wants to do is bend him over something when he should be focusing on the increasingly inexplicable crimes and mortality rate on the rise in Beacon Hills.

His hands curl into loose fists at his sides, and he forces a smile that is not in any way nice. Stiles returns the look.

Stiles holds his hands up, wrists out, like an offering and a challenge. Rafael breathes deep once, holds it, and lets it out long and slow. His palms itch, and he crosses his arms over his chest instead of reaching for his cuffs or doing something stupid.

“Come on,” Stiles winks, taunting; Rafael’s teeth grit together. “You know you want to.”

He moves before he can stop himself. Gripping one of Stiles’ wrists, his hand big and unyielding around it, he uses his other hand to push Stiles around and down. Stiles hits the desk with a grunt that quickly transitions into a ragged gasp when Rafael wrenches his arm around and pins it to Stiles’ back. A thrill floods through Rafael until the soles of his feet are tingling.

He press Stiles’ arm a bit higher at his back, listens to Stiles gasp again, watches him strain. Rafael bites down on his cheek to keep from smiling.

“Is this what you want?” he asks, kicking Stiles feet apart and shuffling closer.

Stiles tries to move, tries to use his free arm to leverage himself up, but Rafael grips the back of his neck and presses down firm enough to keep him pinned. He lets Stiles struggle, lets him squirm for a moment or two, feeling the warmth radiate off of him. When he leans over, bracing his weight against Stiles’ back, Stiles jerks with a hiss.

“Easy,” Rafael chides, voice low in Stiles’ ear, eyes avid on his face.

“Get off of me,” Stiles sneers, cheeks turning a ruddy color, and Rafael’s fingers curl tighter at his nape.

“Stop struggling,” Rafael says. “If you keep trying to get loose, all you’re going to do is dislocate your shoulder.”

Stiles goes, blissfully, still. Inhaling sharply, Rafael hums, body still bent over Stiles’ but grip easing somewhat.

It’s tempting. It’s more than tempting. Stiles shifts, tentative and careful, and his breath catches in his chest when the curves of his ass presses flush with Rafael’s crotch. Rafael goes stiff, shoulders drawing tight, and watches the way the tips of Stiles’ ears turn pink, eyes darting down.

The reaction isn’t quite what he’s expecting. It’s not disgust, like Rafael might have predicted. It’s an embarrassed longing that reflects his own. For a long second they are frozen together like that, and then Rafael straightens out and releases the back of Stiles’ neck. His palm eases down, settling between Stiles’ shoulder blades, and he feels the way muscles shift there beneath the cotton of Stiles’ shirt.

Pressing his tongue the roof of his mouth, Rafael swallows. His hand is big against Stiles’ back, would be big gripping his hips, and Rafael lets himself linger on that thought for longer than he should—thumb dragging in a slow circle over Stiles’ back. Stiles shudders, full bodied and quaking, and Rafael’s abdomen goes tight when Stiles lets out the softest little sound as his lips part.

He lets Stiles go. Releases him and takes a step back, tugging at the lapel of his suit coat to straighten out the material before doing the top button of it. His eyes don’t leave Stiles where he’s still bent over the desk. Another long second drags out before Stiles pushes himself up tentatively, rolling out the strained shoulder gingerly as he clears his throat.

“Go home, Stiles.” Rafael says, voice rough.

“Right,” Stiles breathes, eyes still cast down, face still red, and Rafael’s hands clench impossibly tight.

He shuffles away awkwardly. Rafael watches him go.

When he’s finally alone again, he sits back down in his chair and palms himself with a low groan. Head tipping back, he closes his eyes, and imagines what it could have been.


End file.
